


fall asleep to summer's dream

by starlike (orphan_account)



Series: you're something to remember [2]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Blood, I'm so sorry, M/M, Phanfiction, Violence, depicted death, song fic kind of, this is entirely caity's fault she started it u can blame her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starlike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It’s like Phil’s not even in his body anymore, and he can separate the pain and fear from logic and comprehension. It’s futile; the world is getting impossibly darker and he knows that he’s moments away from losing consciousness. He wants to stay, to reconcile and fix everything that he’s ever left with loose ends, but, he supposes that that’s generally what most people feel when they’re dying, and that there’s no way he’s walking out of this. </em><br/>Phil's last moments, from 'i wish that you were here by my side'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fall asleep to summer's dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empyyrean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empyyrean/gifts).



Keys digging into his palm hard enough to leave lasting indentations, his shoes and pant legs soaking with rain, Phil walks down the pavement on some unknown street with his head bowed. He doesn’t know where he’s going, really, just that he needs to keep moving forwards, putting more space between the flat and himself.

 

He can’t remember what he did this time -- if he did anything at all. Lately, Dan’s been getting on him for useless reasons, stuff that doesn’t even make sense, even things that other people do, but he can’t bitch at _them_ , so he needs something to take it out on. He’ll groan and moan at Phil about anything, nowadays.

 

Pulling his useless jacket hood down as far as it’ll go, even though it does next to nothing to keep his head dry, he pulls his phone out to check the time; _01:19_ , it reads. With a sigh that’s drowned out by the downpour, he turns around to make his way back home. He figures that, even if Dan’s still awake, he must’ve migrated back to his cave of a room by now, and it’ll have calmed down, for the time being. Maybe if he’s still up he can apologize-- he didn’t mean to storm out like that, and, thinking about the rash decision now, he regrets the way he acted.

 

The easy, rhythmic beat of his steps allows him to zone out and get lost in his thoughts. Really, he can see where Dan’s coming from, why he feels the way he does; it’s a pretty black-and-white case of projection and internalized homophobia, along with the added stress from YouTube and the viewers that would rather see them as a couple instead of individual people, or best friends, and Phil would rather he take out his anger on him instead of himself.

 

His understanding of the situation doesn’t soften the blows, though. Every time Dan screams at him, tries to egg him on and coax him into fighting, every inch he pushes himself farther away from Phil breaks his heart just a little more. While he prides himself on being a decent emotional punching bag, he’s human, and he cracks, sometimes-- if that first tear falls, Lord knows there’s an entire dam bursting behind it, and, as much as he hates crying, it seems to fix things, for a little bit. He tells himself that when the thoughts of moving out and getting away from it all cross his mind; _everything’s not ruined_ , he’ll think with sticky salt water drying on his cheeks and Dan snoring softly on his chest. _It’ll get better soon_.

 

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of someone running up behind him, bringing acute awareness to the fact that he’s walking around Manchester at nearly two in the morning, and any person he sees on his trek back home could be a serial killer or something.

 

He has half a second to chastise himself for being paranoid when the footsteps get close to passing him but stop instead, and there are arms throwing him into the brick wall to his left. He’s faced with a guy that’s waving a short, sharp looking knife in his general direction and stuttering out something about a wallet.

 

He’s frozen, eyes zeroing in on the knife that won’t sit still, and the man’s desperate voice is droning in his ears while all Phil can think is oh, _God, I’m being mugged_.

 

“I-” he croaks, straining against the wall, trying to get as far away from the attacker as possible. “I don’t have it on me, I didn’t-”

 

“Bullshit!” He screams in his face, deranged, and Phil can feel the point of the blade pressing into his hoodie.

 

“Really, I swear, look, I’ll,” he stops, brain unable to form full sentences through the panic-induced fog, and reaches down to turn his pockets inside out to show that he was telling the truth, that he honestly didn’t have any money.

 

Only, he doesn’t get the chance. One minute, his hand is hovering above his jeans, and the next it’s clutching his stomach, heat slowly soaking on to his shirt from where the knife was just plunged into him. His mouth is open wide, and he doesn’t feel the pain immediately, but, when it catches up with him, he slides down the wall with a weak cry, and this seems to break the mugger out of whatever shocked state he’d been standing there in, as he quickly digs a phone out of his pocket while flailing, muttering an array of frantic curse words until he’s connected with someone, and Phil thinks he can hear him giving the nearest address before he abruptly hangs up, bolting in the other direction and dropping the bloodied weapon behind him.

 

Phil isn’t very concerned about where he’s going, though -- he’s more focused on the utter agony tearing through his abdomen and the blood spilling out over his hands. He has to do something, anything, but he can’t _think_. Against his better judgement, he shifts, and the hard corner of the phone in his front pocket distracts him for a moment, gives him an idea and his mind holds onto it for dear life.

 

With shaking fingers, he digs it out, trying to be careful at first and keep the blood off of it, but, when that proves to be too much of a challenge, he mentally says ‘fuck it’ and clasps the damn thing in an iron grip, afraid of it falling and not being able to pick it back up.

 

His thoughts are muddled and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he opens is his contacts. The first one there is Dan; when he programmed it in himself, he’d spelled it as “;Dan”, and it’d never been changed. Phil’s eyes fill with tears, for reasons other than the fatal wound he’s currently sporting.

 

 _Dan_. The last thing he’d said to him had been “what do you care?” and now, here he was, potentially bleeding out on the side of the road. If he died, he wouldn’t be able to say sorry, or resolve anything. Phil struggles to click on it, hits ‘call’, but his vision is blurring, his stomach hurts more than anything he’s ever felt, and a wailing siren gets louder and louder until it’s drowning out the ringing tone and, if he could bother to put the energy into moving, he’d be covering his ears. He vaguely registers being hauled onto something, but there’s a black muteness encasing his senses and all he can think is _no, please, it can’t end like this_. The weight of his cell phone disappears from his hands just as the start of Dan’s voicemail greeting comes through the tiny speaker, and he weakly attempts to grab for it back, but his arm doesn’t move. His body is impossibly heavy, and his head is spinning. There’s hot copper in his mouth, all over his stomach and his legs, and somewhere in the background of his head he says _that’s my lifeblood that I’m losing_.

 

He feels the urge to laugh, oddly enough, but when he tries it comes out as a wet cough that makes his lungs burn. There are bodies moving in a frenzy all around him, touching him, but they’re only making it hurt worse and he wishes they’d leave him. Can’t they hear the heart monitor slowing down?

 

It’s like Phil’s not even in his body anymore, and he can separate the pain and fear from logic and comprehension. It’s futile; the world is getting impossibly darker and he knows that he’s moments away from losing consciousness. He wants to stay, to reconcile and fix everything that he’s ever left with loose ends, but, he supposes that that’s generally what most people feel when they’re dying, and that there’s no way he’s walking out of this.

 

He doesn’t know when his eyes drifted shut, but, he can’t muster up the power to open them again. He should be terrified, and crying, but he’s just _tired_. His thoughts won’t line up in proper order and they’re gradually slowing, turning into a sluggish mush that he can’t make any sense of.

 

Phil tries to force his heavy tongue to form a name he’s said so many times in so many different ways that it should be second nature by now, but he can’t hear himself, and he falls asleep not sure if he really said it or if it was just his imagination.

**Author's Note:**

> i wasn't planning on ever writing anything else in the 'i wish that you were here by my side' fic's 'verse, but [the amazing caity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenly_ely) said something about phil trying to call dan and i couldn't get the image out of my head (and also, she's writing climbing class angst and breaking my heart, so, this was payback, but, we were talking while we were both writing and it just kept escalating until it turned into an angst competition. oops). this was written all at once and i didn't make an outline or draft it or anything so, in a few weeks i'll go back and clean it up some, but, for now, sorry for the bad writing.  
> additional note: i've never been stabbed, or mugged, or anything. it's probs rly unrealistic. soz.  
> comments seriously mean the world to me, and make my entire year. if you liked it, tell me? :D


End file.
